Blue
by softgrungefic
Summary: Castiel and Sam dinking about, grocery shopping, holding hands.


"Sam," Castiel stopped Sam with a light touch, a few outstretched fingers brushing the fabric of his jacket. When Sam turned to face him, he held up a scarf—thick, chunky red yarn. "Don't forget to protect yourself from the cold."

He seemed to clearly know that the way he phrased himself seemed silly, going by the slight spark in his eyes, but Sam still said, "Can't forget my armor, can I?" He smiled at Castiel, and took the scarf, and wrapped it around his neck under that strange, protective stare. He took Castiel's hand, just for a moment. Didn't do anything. Didn't squeeze it or lace their fingers together. Just took it for a few seconds and then let it go, and then he was out the door into the vague gray chill of January.

Castiel squinted at Sam's back as he walked down the front path. He felt as though there was something missing. A hat, maybe. Or gloves. Both. Sam possessed neither—at least, he wasn't wearing them. Castiel made a thoughtful, grumbly noise in the back of his throat.

Part of the way down the block, Sam paused, as if waiting.

Castiel was at his side within a minute or so, brandishing a hat with a puffball on top, and simple black gloves. He had decked himself out, of course, so as not to be hypocritical as he urged Sam to cover his hands and head.

"You're so blue." One of Sam's dimples caved deeper. He wiggled his fingers, tugging the gloves down. Made sure his hair wasn't sticking out weird from under his red and white hat (like Waldo, he couldn't help but think). He reached out. "Like a blueberry." He straightened Castiel's thin scarf, all twisted about, and tugged his hat down to cover his ears. "A very serious blueberry."

Again, the squint. Narrowed eyes, as Castiel's mouth quirked up just at the side. "I'm not a blueberry."

Sam laughed, quietly, and his breath went white like wood smoke in the winter air.

They held hands, walking down the sidewalk. Castiel's trench coat—a new one, the color of charcoal—swished around his knees . So much smoky black, and bright, bright blue. Sam thought, against the frosted silver-gray of the dead grass and concrete, Castiel stuck out. Like a blue jay. A bluebell. An iron tree whose ultramarine beanie (rolled up around the bottom) proclaimed him some kind of colorful soul.

Sam liked the way Castiel looked, like that, in all dark grays and blacks and bright blues. It made his eyes seem even brighter.

"You're staring, Sam."

Sam looked away. "What? No I'm not." He grinned, face pink from the cold, nose red, glancing out over the half-frozen road. "There was just something... on your hat."

Castiel rolled his eyes. But not like other people do it. In that special Castiel way, halfway, some subtle upward motion that you couldn't quite place. But Sam knew that look. He gave Castiel's hand a squeeze, grinning ever wider as they crossed the street.

"Where are we going?" Castiel watched Sam, rather than his feet or the sidewalk or any of their surroundings. Unblinking, blue.

Everything was blue. The sky, Castiel, the ice on the road.

Sam shrugged. "It's a surprise, now." He raised his eyebrows. "You should have asked before you decided to tag along. What if I was gonna go to a strip club?"

Castiel shook his head. "No." Not a question. No uncertainty. Just, "No, I know you're not going to a strip club." He drifted closer to Sam, with their hands linked so tight. "You always bring your water bottle to the strip club, when Dean insist that you accompany him. Today, you're empty handed. Excluding my fingers."

With a slight smile, Sam shook his head. "You notice the littlest things, y'know?"

Castiel shrugged. It was both a natural and unnatural movement, on him.

"Fine, I'm going to the grocery store." Sam let go of Castiel's hand, but then he draped his arm around his shoulders, and pulled him into his side. "Just to get some more soy milk."

A nod, silent. Castiel half-closed his eyes, leaning into Sam's warmth. Quiet and low, he said, "So I can eat without the worry of chronic constipation."

Sam laughed. He couldn't help it. Sometimes, Castiel's matter-of-fact tone—his bluntness—just cracked Sam up. No matter how true, or relevant. He sighed, shook his head, all grinning with his cheeks dimpling. "Yeah, food allergies suck, huh?"

"I find it unfortunate that I'm unable to eat as much whipped cream as I would like."

Nodding, Sam made a face. Not a frown—downturned mouth, with the eyebrows up, considering. "At least you don't break out in hives, or something. No anaphylactic shock. No nausea. Right?"

Castiel nodded. "Though I do find the gas particularly unpleasant."

More laughter.

They continued on their way to the store together, sometimes linking hands, sometimes leaning into each other, often smiling even when they fell silent. At the store, they lingered in some aisles and passed through others with little thought. The most important task, to Castiel, was to find a suitable brand of peanut butter while Sam searched for the items on his list.

Walking home, each carrying a five cent paper bag of groceries, Castiel pointed out the way the frost sparkled as the sun drifted lower in the sky. Sam looked where Castiel showed him, each small thing encrusted with frozen white glitter—blades of grass, dead leaves, branches, the cracks in the sidewalk. He mirrored the wonder Castiel presented to the world, as they looked at a frozen spider web.

"Do you think the spider is alright?" Castiel stared at the ice-spiked web for a few long seconds, as if he could will something to happen just with the power of his gaze. As if the blue of his eyes was enough like the sky that he could bring the sun out and melt the frost and ice surrounding and encasing the neighborhoods they walked through.

Sam hummed, quietly. "I dunno." He leaned down to join Castiel in staring. "Maybe it's hibernating." He shrugged, with a sly sliding smile toward Castiel. He kissed Castiel's cheek—a quick, moist peck—and straightened up, heading off down the sidewalk once more.

Castiel lingered a moment, still wondering at the web, but then he followed after Sam with fast steps to catch up to his long stride.

When they got home, Castiel rushed through putting away the food, so that he could go to the computer and look up frozen spiders and their winter habits. Sam shook his head and moved the peanut butter out of the crisper and into the cupboard, and put the ice cream into the freezer rather than the door of the fridge. He started on dinner, pausing once to check in with Castiel, curious about his findings.

"You were right about hibernation." Castiel glanced at Sam's hands, covered in flour. "What are you making?" His eyes lit up—whether Sam was a particularly good cook or not never seemed to matter to him, only that it was Sam making the food.

Sam gave him a crooked grin and shrugged. "Chicken pot pie."

Castiel closed his eyes and leaned on Sam.

With a laugh, Sam pecked him on the cheek and straightened up, slipping away so he could get back to cooking. Castiel ended up joining him in the kitchen, sitting at the round dining table watching him cook. He occasionally muttered something in his gravelly tone, as Sam chopped something up, or mixed something together. Sam always answered, and then they dwindled off into a comfortable silence until Castiel's next query or statement, until the house filled with the smell of cooking chicken and vegetables.

Sam sat beside Castiel at the table, and they didn't really talk. Instead, Castiel played with Sam's fingers, turning his hands over, trailing a light touch over the lines in his palm. Sam, in turn, smiled far too much, until his dimples seemed to be attempting to become craters and his eyes creased in the corners. He tapped on Castiel's knuckles, now and then. A little game, back and forth. And he caught Castiel's hand in his own, and brought it up so he could kiss the blue-green impressions of his veins. Castiel smiled, too, so his nose crinkled on one side and his gums showed.

It seemed like barely any time passed before the timer went off. It went by so quickly with their playful touches.

Sam put the pot pie out to cool, and made sure the oven was off. He looked out the window over the sink a moment, at the now-dark backyard. But then, steps light, he walked past Castiel and out of the kitchen—into the living room, then the hall, then their bedroom in the back of the small house. Through the deep blue door, with Castiel on his heels. They settled in the bed, with an alarm set on Sam's phone so they wouldn't forget to eat once the food had cooled.

With Castiel nestled against his side, Sam read. Castiel read too, from the same pages, with Sam's arm wrapped around his shoulders. He read faster than Sam, so when he finished a page, he would look up and watch Sam's eyes move back and forth—he once pointed out that Sam had sunflowers in his eyes—"or maybe black-eyed susans"—and Sam snorted, but his face went just a little pink. Castiel returned his attention to the book with a smug smile.

They read until the alarm went off. They ate in the kitchen, and changed into softer clothes, and brushed their teeth one at a time in the tiny bathroom, and bundled into bed together. Again, side-by-side under plaid blankets, shifting close in the slight chill.

Castiel would surely wake up with Sam's leg across his side, half-uncovered.

He smiled at the thought.


End file.
